


Daddy, I want to play

by MischiefJoKeR



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post The Great Game, Pre-A Scandal in Belgravia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Texting, jim's day off
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has no cases, leading him to laying around the flat for days. A text from a consulting criminal gets him on his feet, and Moriarty visits for his day off of crime planning, offering Sherlock an ultimatum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy, I want to play

**Author's Note:**

> Just a random two-shot I've had in the works for a while. Second part is still in the works.
> 
> Jimlock @ tumblr

221B Baker Street was either incessantly quiet or cacophonous with the mischief the renters caused. Sherlock Holmes could play violin and compose for hours on end, filling the building with his music. John Watson, on the other hand, had a habit of watching the telly when not away at the hospital. Cases meant the flat was either vacant or cluttered with clues and papers collected from the crime scene. 

Lestrade hadn’t called. It’d been eight days and there was nothing remotely interesting happening. John was out working during the daytime, only coming home for a few moments to get ready for a date with some-woman-with-a-name and was out the majority of the night. Some circumstances left him not coming home at all, to which Sherlock assumed this had been one of his longer relationships. It wasn’t hard to tell he was rebounding easily.

His flatmate’s absence didn’t bother Sherlock so much. Being out of work, yes, that bothered him much more. Saint Bart’s had no interesting corpses and the leading mortician had banned him from going on his own accord when he wasn’t assigned a case. His experiment for testing the speed of hair loss from an enflamed victim had ceased to entertain him anyways.

More worrying: No cases meant no villainy. His recent archenemy was nothing but a whisper in the back of his mind. Moriarty was behind the entire crime syndicate of London, undoubtedly, and yet he hadn’t seen the need to give the Yard a good murder? It hardly felt in character and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was meant to be concerned that the villain had been offed or terrified that he must be planning something immense. Never concerned, he rationalized, and yet he still felt strange imagining his career without the consulting criminal.

The younger Holmes occupied the couch for two days, staring at the ceiling with his fingers poised under his chin. Slipping in and out of awareness wasn’t something he did frequently, but when it did happen his previous train of thought came right back around. The psychopath was planning something, and yet he wasn’t playing a game. Not yet, maybe. He wondered if the lull in crime was nothing but coincidence, but he doubted that in all of England not a single interesting crime would be committed. The British were fairly creative with their illegal activities, if Jack the Ripper wasn’t a prime example.

Sherlock could only tell days were passing because the sun would filter through the window at precisely the same time every day and shine in his eyes for several minutes.

Gradually the feeling of his body wasn’t so-much meditative as it was numb. He shook, limbs quaking under his clothing. Not leaving the house meant there wasn’t much cause for getting dressed, but he was more presentable than he was for the queen. He paced the short living room, stepping over the coffee table. He presumed a shower was in order. That would give him some cause to shroud himself in his thinking (and in John’s opinion, sulking) sheet. He strode into his bedroom, not caring for the piles of clothing and papers around. He flipped on the light to his bathroom and began to shut the door when he heard a ping.

The door stopped suddenly and inch before its frame with the quietest of creaks. Sherlock lifted his eyes, millions of thoughts shooting through his mind. The loudest one was what caused him to pause: the ping was not the one of his own phone, but the one in a drawer of his disheveled room. One he didn’t carry around for numerous reasons and the main one being that it was pink. He exited the bathroom, feeling dramatic as ever even with his human heart racing. He opened the drawer and took out the pink electronic device, unlocking the screen to view his new message.

_Finally done lying around, Sherly? I’m bored, too. xJM_

He tapped his fingers along the back of the device. _Oh_ , it appeared that he wasn’t as alone in his flat as he’d believed. Regardless, he did not want to give his enemy the satisfaction of a response. He stepped back into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He flicked the small lock on it, some form of precaution coursing through him as much as the adrenaline. He set the phone on the bathroom counter and ran the water. He didn’t have much time if his hypothesis was correct.

A bored Moriarty was as dangerous as he could be, and if surveillance and texting was anything to go by, he’d be having a guest. Sherlock showered quickly, simply shaking water out from his curly locks that always dried perfectly. A towel tied around his waist sufficed, a hand snatching the phone and unlocking it again. Nothing new— this was more of a bad sign than a good one. It had been only five minutes but Moriarty was not patient. He padded into his messy room, feet kicking a few piles of clothes or stacked books out of his way. He donned his trousers and the deep violet shirt he felt most comfortable in. He passed up wearing a suit jacket, knowing he was already overdressed from what he usually wore around the house; namely a sheet.

He finally eased his way into the living room, relieved to see it empty. His eyes darted around as if he’d never been there before. Moriarty had seen him, somehow. Cameras were likely, given he and John had been away on a few cases since their encounter at the pool. Surveillance was also likely, especially considering the delay in texting, but that may mean that Moriarty was closer than he thought. He remained standing, forcing his eyes from the window overlooking Baker Street to peruse his wall of books and pinned papers. He still had scraps from their last case, as well as the hair loss experiment, thoughts too many other places to clear them. It wasn’t like something had come up to make him replace them, anyways.

Sherlock stood, rereading the bindings of all the books he’d already read cover to cover enough times, for countless minutes. His thoughts still raced, hands folded behind his back. The phone in his trouser pocket never went off, and the flat remained quiet all around him. Had he deduced incorrectly? Was the man expecting some kind of response from him, and if so, why? James Moriarty was too unpredictable to be read, and it made Sherlock shiver.

Footsteps: Too light to be John, too quiet to be Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft or Lestrade, though, the steps were quick as if they took the stairs two at a time. With the uneven level of the stairs and an odd amount of them, Sherlock thought on the purpose of doing such a walk. Excitement, haste, but the lack of thudding meant poise. Covering ground while maintaining grace. Sherlock realized he should have put the kettle on. He went back to looking down onto the street, though the person he’d expected to see walking down the pavement was likely already out of sight. On cue, the door opened with a click and the slightest of creaks.

“I guess you _were_ done lying around,” the low Irish voice carried through the room. Sherlock drummed his fingers over the knuckles of his other hand, neatly folded behind his back. “Thank goodness I had the day off.”

“I didn’t realize you had the leisure of not causing trouble for a day.” Sherlock turned, his face remaining as impassive as possible. James Moriarty walked around the space between the kitchen and John’s chair, eyes sliding around the furnishings of the flat. Moriarty ran his tongue over his lips, visibly concealing the tiniest of knowing grins. He stopped, bouncing on his heels and standing straight at five foot ten, his eyes resting on Sherlock just a stride away.

 

“Now Sherly, you might’ve hurt my feelings. Me, trouble? No no no,” Moriarty took that one stride, moving around the chair towards the detective. Sherlock leveled his shoulders and his eyebrow twitched slightly. He didn’t like the proximity and yet he wouldn’t give Moriarty the satisfaction of causing him to back down. “If I didn’t have days off how could I come and visit the world’s only consulting detective?”

“Even if I did have days off I would not have wanted a talk over tea.” The younger Holmes retorted quickly. Moriarty rolled his head on his shoulders.

“But you didn’t make tea. Thank goodness for that, it’d prolong this visit a tad too long.”

“Got somewhere to be on your day off? Please, don’t let me keep you. I’m such an inhospitable host.” Sherlock watched as Moriarty ran a finger over the mantelpiece, wiping away the dust on his thumb. When he didn’t respond to Sherlock, instead inspecting old photographs of cases and the skull, the taller of the two thinned his lips. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re asking the wrong. Question.” Moriarty rounded on him suddenly, only a step away. Sherlock refused to move: that and another step back would press him against the bookcases. Sherlock watched as Moriarty’s eyes wandered from his emerald green down his frame, and then slowly back up. Sherlock gulped, cursing it as Moriarty noticed the very visible bob of his Adam’s apple and gained a smirk.

“What do you intend to do while you’re here?” Sherlock said again. Moriarty stared through his eyes again, as if appraising if the question was good enough, before splitting out into another grin.

“That’s better, my dear.” Moriarty’s £600 leather shoes clacked on the floor as he closed the gap between the consultants. “I was worried you were going to be boring.” He pressed his left index finger (left handed, as Sherlock had noticed from their previous encounter) on Sherlock’s sternum, at the point where the buttons of his shirt began.

“What is th—“ Sherlock was silenced when the index finger slipped up and pressed hard on his lips.

“No more questions, darling. You got one. Just be quiet so Dear Jim can enjoy his day off.” His right hand slid over the detective’s throat, surprised as Sherlock didn’t so much as flinch. Moriarty debated taking his breath away, literally, eyeing the throat of the brilliant Holmes. No, he told himself, he still needed the detective alive: this wasn’t their final problem. He removed the finger from Sherlock’s lips, smiling as the man remained silent. His fingers picked their way down the silk shirt, undoing buttons on the way. The taller man’s breathing remained steady, a forced thing, but soon he’d make the other stop thinking.

Jim Moriarty delicately flicked the buttons from their slots and parted the sides of purple fabric like a curtain to the main event. Oh, the consulting detective was a show on his own, fanfare aside. Jim ran his soft fingers down Sherlock’s chest, gently massaging and memorizing every dip and ridge on the other man’s skin. The criminal could feel the chest under his palms moving slightly with every breath he took. It spiked the urge within him to make that breathing more ragged, more desperate, until he was craving even the slightest affection from him. His hands slipped up over the other’s nipples, eliciting the slightest shift in Sherlock’s stance. Jim smiled as the man had further backed himself to the bookcases, the hundreds of books on the shelves not budging.

“Tsk tsk, Sherly. Flinching already when I’m only getting a feel for you?” Jim’s voice drawled in his false English accent. “Don’t fret, my dear, daddy knows just what you need.” He lowered his voice just right, making it rumble deep in his vocal chords. The detective in front of him made some undignified sound in his throat as Jim ran his thumbs in circles over his hips, pressing.

“Moriarty.” Sherlock regained his capacity to speak, low and dripping angrily.

“Jim, dear. Please,” The criminal grinned with his teeth as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his trousers. “The fewer syllables, the better.”

Jim anticipated some retaliation: and therefore it was easy to catch Sherlock by his wrist when he tickled the area just above his waist band. He slammed his hand back onto the wooden shelf, grasping tight enough to cut off circulation. The second wrist was caught too and Jim pinned both hands above the Detective’s head, keeping his thin wrists in one grip. The bookcase rattled loudly as the various scientific readings of different sizes shook in their stronghold. Sherlock tugged once more, his chest arching up off the structure to force the criminal off of him. Moriarty laughed outright, even in one hand having the upper hand with his strength. Most of his enemies were surprised how someone as small as he was could hide his power, but he aimed to be surprising.  “Tut tut, so eager to get handsy, are you?” Jim taunted, his free palm pressing down Sherlock’s torso.

“This seems too ordinary for you, _Jim_ ,” Sherlock spat the syllable. Jim’s deep chestnut eyes shrouded by his dark pupils blown wide in excitement looked up at Sherlock, the toothy grin stretching over his face.

“I wouldn’t dream disappoint you in being ordinary, Sherly. I’ll be giving you something very out of the ordinary by your standards.” His hand moved down again, not tickling this time and plucking the button from his trousers.

“Sex is ordinary and primal,” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as the sound of his zip being pulled down seemed to echo in the flat. “Juvenile, and rape is petty.” He moved to speak again when Moriarty’s free hand gave his cheek a couple hard pats.

“Poor, clueless Virgin,” He cooed, shaking his head sadly. “Don’t worry, I won’t make anything so boring and petty, you think _I_ would be ordinary in anything?” His hand gripped hard at Sherlock’s throat, finally taking the satisfaction of ripping away his lifeline. He hummed in approval as Sherlock tried to take breaths, and he only gripped tighter. “No no, Sherlock. I’m going to have you screaming and crying and begging, and you’re going to love every second of it. And once you realize you love everything only I can give you, I’ll leave you. I’ll _burn_ you, inside out.” His hand unclenched and let Sherlock take a few breaths.

“Dull,” the detective wrenched the word from his thick, corded throat. Moriarty softened his smile those his eyes were piercing as ever.

“You wouldn’t know how sharp something like this can be, Sherly. Hush now, listen to daddy, it’s his day off whether you like it or not.” Sherlock said nothing, even as Moriarty let his hand drop away from the detective’s wrists. Once he was satisfied in seeing Sherlock’s hands at his side gripping the bookcases, his hands moved back to his hips. He tugged the trousers down, though Sherlock pressed his back to the shelves harder. Jim tutted and slapped the upper thigh without warning, the sound carrying through the empty flat. Sherlock ground his teeth together and glared down at the criminal, but didn’t resist when Jim’s strong hands moved his hips to give enough room for clothing to be removed. He let them drop to the detective’s ankles, leaving him in his pants. His knuckles were white where he gripped the shelf, while keeping the rest of his features relaxed and indifferent. He jerked back slightly when Moriarty hooked a finger in the waistband and peered down, as if it were some goodie bag that he wasn’t allowed to peek in. The criminal gave a whistle, and chuckled at the faint dusting of pink on Sherlock’s face.

“Daddy likes his new present, Sherly. He can’t help but peek before unwrapping it.” He let the band go with a snap, cold fingers trailing back up his stomach. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, glaring at the top of Moriarty’s head. The roots were grey, probably from stress or the fact he hadn’t visited a salon in some time. He also noticed he wasn’t as clean-shaven as the last time they saw each other, ten meters apart with sniper sights trained on him. Remembering the pool, the bomb strapped on John, the snipers that’s aim was clearly distracted by something, kept him out from the present.

Until Moriarty bit his collarbone. A grunt escaped him, rumbling low in his throat as his hands shot up to Moriarty’s shoulders, trying to push him away. The criminal only bit harder, his hands on Sherlock’s torso digging into his ribs hard enough to bruise. He didn’t need a verbal remark to know he wasn’t letting the detective go anywhere. He glared back down at him as Jim removed his teeth, running his tongue over the skin he broke. Sherlock let his fingers fist in Moriarty’s suit, some petulant desire to tear the expensive fabric that aided the criminal’s ego racing through him along with his anger. How stupid he’d been to stand by and let himself be overwhelmed. He hadn’t expected this at all; it was infuriating. Moriarty grew bored of licking and suckling at different parts of Sherlock’s neck, his hands releasing their grip to slide the violet fitted shirt the rest of the way off his shoulders. He pulled his hands away from Moriarty’s shoulders, under an intense stare he dropped them back to his sides, letting the shirt fall to the floor.

“Are you gonna play nice now, my dear?” He licked his hips, switching to his Irish lilt. Sherlock just breathed, keeping his heart beat normal. The man was dangerous, murderous, completely insane, and probably had numerous tools for gutting the detective tucked away in the suit. “Oh, don’t worry: I love you being so argumentative, but being agreeable would be sexy too.” Cold fingers ran up and down Sherlock’s forearms. The detective let out a scoff.

“As if I would ever be in agreement with you. Why should I? You won’t kill me. I’ve endured worse than this, and it makes no difference to me.” Sherlock frowned. His body was just a vessel to his mind. Sex was nothing, and he had a basically non-existent libido to assist with his thinking.

“I’m not going to kill you _yet._ Not if you say no,” Moriarty ran his hands down Sherlock’s chest again, his nails scratching his skin as he went. He lifted his eyes, completely black. “I’m giving you the option to sit back and enjoy it, or lie down and take it like a bitch.”

“How generous.” Sherlock said levelly, though he thought his heart may have skipped a beat. He prayed the nails on his skin didn’t somehow pick up on this. When he said nothing more, Moriarty hummed a high note, going back to Sherlock’s chest and placing a few kisses just below his pectorals.

“Alright, dear. You pretend all you like. Anytime you want me to reconsider, you just beg.” The criminal grinned up at him one last time. Sherlock rolled his eyes, only making Moriarty’s grin widen. The pair said nothing, Moriarty letting his hands move back down to Sherlock’s waistline while he lifted his head, hooded eyes finally meeting Sherlock’s. The detective got the sense of what was coming a second too late, as the criminal pressed his lips to his with bruising force.

Sherlock did nothing in response, keeping his eyes open as though Moriarty would get the jump on him any further. Moriarty smiled against his lips, moving back a millimeter and licking his own lips, tongue brushing Sherlock’s in the proximity. Sherlock frowned as the criminal had left his eyes open too, their depths giving him no indication of his next move. He moved forward again, locking his lips more strategically, running his tongue along Sherlock’s unmoving lips. He bit into his bottom one teasingly, pulling it back with him. Sherlock only glared down at him as the criminal waggled his eyebrows ridiculously. He let Sherlock’s lip go after a moment, studying the detective’s mouth as if it were a murder case on its own. Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off Moriarty’s, forcing his eyes everywhere but his mouth.

Moriarty raised a plucked eyebrow as he met eyes with Sherlock again. Sensing the oncoming assault, Sherlock clenched his teeth. He wouldn’t give in that easily, whether or not he let the criminal do as he pleased. He let out a sharp, embarrassing gasp as instead of attacking his mouth again, the criminal palmed him through his pants. He rarely gave himself attention down there, and the suddenness of the unwanted action startled him. His skin heated up instantly, the pink blush over his cheeks returning as his body recognized it was alive. Sherlock gave an annoyed grunt as Moriarty captured his lips again, his slimy tongue sneaking through Sherlock’s previous barriers that the gasp lowered. Sherlock’s nails gripped the bookshelf and his jaw clenched, threatening to bite. His jaw was cupped and held slack as Moriarty moaned into the possessive kiss, his tongue exploring as far into Sherlock’s mouth as he could, hand not ceasing its actions.

“Mm, delicious.” Moriarty pulled back just far enough to whisper, his lips brushing over Sherlock’s chapped ones. “Don’t hold back those pretty noises either, my dear. You’re challenging me to rip them out of you.” Moriarty squeezed his cock again almost painfully. Sherlock’s body betrayed his mind again as he let out a low groan. Roughness shouldn’t be getting him hard— _Moriarty_ shouldn’t be doing any of this. The criminal giggled, running his thumb along the contour of the bulge in his silk shorts.

“Physical stimulus,” Sherlock snapped back at him, keeping his voice level. Even under the stupidly-large forehead of hair that was slicked back, Sherlock saw Moriarty roll his eyes.

“You’re still thinking too much.” Moriarty changed his voice to the whiny, camp voice Sherlock especially loathed. Too high pitched, too false, too cynical. Fingers grasped his hips and tugged him forwards, arching him off of the bookshelf once more. Another tug sent his pants falling around his ankles, Sherlock shivering at the cooler air. His heart gave a shudder as well as he saw he was half hard, and Moriarty was looking at him like a man who won the lottery. “Oh my, I did feel you right…naughty naughty.” Moriarty’s deep Irish returned, vibrating through the air. Sherlock swallowed forcefully, averting his eyes from Moriarty’s piercing gaze, instead locking it onto the smilie face with bullet holes on the wall. He focused on nothing but that, setting his mind into overdrive about how bored he was that day.

Jim looked up at Sherlock and shook his head lightly, an amused smile on his face. The detective was too predictable. He’d expected a little bit of a fight, but neither consultant seemed to like getting their hands dirty. Instead Sherlock was giving him the cold shoulder. It was just more tempting to tear apart his mind palace and fill his head with nothing but what he came to give. While Sherlock was blissfully unaware that he was still so close, he slipped down to kneel, only wanting one knee covered with the dust of the Baker Street flat floor. The things he did for the ungrateful detective, honestly. It was his day off, and he was married to his work so—he may as well put in effort to enjoy his holiday.

Sherlock gasped sharply, his head slamming back onto the bookcase as Moriarty licked a line up his cock. The criminal gave another giggle and pumped him, grip firm and rough without lubricant. Sherlock’s eyes wanted to change place, glare at Moriarty who—oh god, was he on his knees? He held himself back, not wanting to give Moriarty any more satisfaction. He was trying to get a reaction obviously, and he’d slipped up again.

“Don’t be shy, Sherlylocks,” The villain cooed, flattening his tongue on the underside of the detective’s prick. The naked Holmes said nothing, only giving a quiet inhale and holding it in, reciting types of tobacco ash in his throbbing head. Moriarty let the saliva collect in his mouth again before giving a sloppier lick up the shaft, flicking at the head as he reached the top. “You don’t want to be quiet, really, do you? All you want to think about is how you got me on my knees for you, darling. I can show you how I can use my tongue: teasing and getting you so hard so fucking slow until you’re trying to fuck my throat.” He could feel the detective’s cock pulse in his hand, twitching to full hardness. “Not like you’ll ever say it. Your cute little moans would be enough, you know, just because it’s my holiday doesn’t mean I wasn’t honest when I said you could enjoy it.” Jim planted a kiss on the head of Sherlock’s cock, eliciting another gasp to break free of his held breath. “Last chance…you wanna play with daddy, or no?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw again, glaring more holes into the bullet-lined wallpaper. Moriarty let out a sigh, goosebumps flying up Sherlock’s flesh as the breath blew over his exposed skin. “No fun, no fun! Very well,” Moriarty stood up once more, a hand moving up to loosen the tie he wore. “On your knees.” The order was a chord lower than Sherlock thought the villain’s voice could go, but regardless, he remained standing. Jim moved forward, a hand sliding between the two consultants until cupping Sherlock’s sac and giving a harsh squeeze. Sherlock gave a pained shout, hands leaving the bookcase to claw at Moriarty’s sleeve. It only made his grip tighten until Sherlock’s eyes watered. “ _Knees_ , pet.” A couple short inhales of breath later, Sherlock shifted his weight, lowering slightly. Moriarty of course felt the movement, releasing his grip and pulling his hand away with a gentle caress as though it could undo the pain from seconds before. Sherlock knelt, changing his focus from the wall to Moriarty’s eyes, deep green pits revealing nothing but hatred. Moriarty beamed and tugged his tie out from his collar. “Good boy!”

Sherlock craned his neck backwards as the tie slung around his own neck, trying to keep him close. With a firm pat on his cheek he stopped, preferring to avoid as much mutilation as possible. The expensive silk moved from his neck to cradle the back of his head, and Sherlock jerked once more when he deduced his intentions. “Mori—“

A slap resonated through the flat, Sherlock’s head now turned from the red mark forming on a cheek. His eyes widened, somehow having not predicted that was something Moriarty was in to. Wait, no, he was not wondering the villain’s kinks or further plans to debauch him. In his stillness, Moriarty tied the tie over Sherlock’s eyes, sending his vision into darkness.

“I told you, Jim. And it’s my holiday now, Sherly. You had your chance to play along. The only words I want out of your mouth are _Yes_ , _please_ , _daddy, more_ , and any combination of them.” Sherlock’s cheeks flushed as Moriarty had leaned down to one of his ears to moan the four words wantonly to him. He felt his cock twitch, and instantly deleted the memory of that. He heard the distinct sound of clothing rustling, and a zip being pulled. He tried to even out his breathing, keeping still even as a slick organ brushed over his lips. They were dampened, and to Sherlock’s horror, Moriarty—Jim—was already hard and leaking. “And don’t even think about using your teeth, darling, or I’ll pull them out.” A hand cupped the detective’s jaw, and as he collected a last breath of air, opened his mouth.

Jim didn’t hesitate to press into Sherlock’s mouth. He started slow, for whatever reason letting Sherlock get used to the feeling of the weight on his tongue. It didn’t last long, considering once Sherlock took another breath through his nose, he pushed in as far as he could get. Sherlock gagged, a hand buried in his hair and his nose brushing the criminal’s pelvis. “Get me nice as wet, Sherly, even I don’t like going in dry.” He chuckled low, bringing his hips back before thrusting down the detective’s throat, a moan leaving his lips in an exhale. Sherlock resisted the urge to gag, forcing his body to swallow around the length and avoid any more suffocating thrusts. Moriarty moaned again, pulling his hips back again. “Had practice on the doctor, Sherly?” It was rhetorical, if the vicious thrust back down his throat didn’t signify it enough. He was quietly thankful for the blindfold as it hid the tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. He equally cursed it as he felt every hair follicle being pulled by smooth fingers, every pulse of Moriarty’s cock on his tongue, and the musky smell every time he was pulled back to the base.

Even with the makeshift blindfold, Sherlock closed his eyes tightly as the tugs on his hair were stronger, yanking his head forward while Moriarty thrust into his mouth. His thrusts were quick and violent, bruising the back of his throat as saliva built up to wet his prick. His breathing was harsher and less controlled, his hand fisting in Sherlock’s dark hair and yanking him all the way back. He coughed, throat sore and trying to readjust to not being full and fucked. Spit was down one side of his chin as he caught his breath. It hitched once more as Moriarty had silently leaned down and licked along Sherlock’s jaw, cleaning up the trail of drool his rapid thrusting had caused. “My, aren’t you even prettier with your face red and fucked. You like choking on my cock, Sherly? You’re not supposed to enjoy this…”

Sherlock’s breath caught again. Of course he wasn’t enjoying this: Moriarty’s petty attempt at proving he was better. Sherlock was mildly disappointed with how Moriarty let his primal instincts take over, while he himself did not. He flinched as a leather shoe prodded his erection. _Oh no,_ He frowned and swallowed as his prick bobbed, no doubt red as his face and aching. The feeling, now observed, started flooding the rest of his senses. “How curious that you like it a little rough, though. Or have you changed your mind? You want to see how interesting daddy can be making you plead for a good fucking? You have _no_ idea what you’re getting into, sweetie, but I can show you.” The hand clutching his hair loosened, running through his hair that became damp with light sweat. Everything was overheating, his senses going in overload. The musky smell was all around them now, the heat pooling in his groin wouldn’t disappear no matter how many scientific formulas he ran through his mind until he forgot what Newton’s laws were. Everything was falling down around him, just from this. “Just say so, Sherlock. Just say “Daddy, I want to play”, and I’ll give you all the data you need about this useless little activity you’ve so wrongfully denied yourself of.”

Sherlock breathed, trying to level out his fast beating heart, but it wasn’t listening. Mind and body were fighting for control and his mind was _losing,_ shaking him to the core. The criminal’s patience was applaudable but he knew this was the last time he’d stop and offer…whatever it was he was offering. He wouldn’t do gentle, and Sherlock wouldn’t do compliant, but perhaps he was offering some form of mutual pleasure. The coil in his gut tightened again at the thought. He really knew little of the subject, only what he’d deduced off of couples having an affair or whatnot. The concepts were blurry half-forgotten things in his memory. Saying such a filthy phrase would not only strip away at his pride, but hand himself over to his nemesis. Exhilaration raced through his bloodstream again, heightened as Moriarty’s cool fingers slipped the blindfold off from his eyes. A knowing smile was placed on his face, eyes half lidded and blown wide in lust. Sherlock couldn’t look away, knowing his own pupils must be dilated now. He licked his lips, as if it would make the words come out smoother.

“Please, daddy.” His voice was raspy and breathless, but he knew his baritone sent shivers down the criminal’s spine even in business confrontations. Jim lifted his chin just slightly, urging him to continue. “I…want to play.”

“Oh, Sherly, don’t worry, Jim will make it all better.” 


End file.
